


Ceasefire (Coaxing, carefully, all his heart's desires)

by Chaotic_Smutty (Anna_Hopkins)



Series: Kinkterror, 2019 [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Begging, Dom/sub Undertones, Kinkterror, Legilimency, M/M, Seduction, mild coercion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-20 23:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21064697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Hopkins/pseuds/Chaotic_Smutty
Summary: (Kinkterror 2019, October 6: Captive/Trapped)Voldemort has twelve hours to get Order secrets out of the mind of Harry Potter, but he cannot use pain or psychological torture to get them. He devises a cunning plan, if not a subtle one, to make Potter lose focus on his Occlumency.





	Ceasefire (Coaxing, carefully, all his heart's desires)

**Author's Note:**

> (Yes I am posting this out of order because I can't wait till I finish the earlier prompt fills any longer aaa)

Twelve hours. He had twelve hours to get the secrets of the Order from Harry Potter before the ceasefire agreement ended. In a few hours Potter would arrive at the Manor -- and, per the agreement, would resist Legilimency as long as he could, until Voldemort either got his secrets or lost the opportunity. Thus went the bargain.

Pain and psychological torture were off the table; the ceasefire had made that abundantly clear. While Voldemort could have used Veritaserum, the Order knew all too well that none could be found anywhere in Britain since Severus had exiled himself from the country in a bid to exit the war, taking his creations with him. (Voldemort would never quite understand Severus, but freedom had been his price to arrange this ceasefire in the first place, and the Dark Lord wanted answers more than he wanted Severus' service.)

So. What to use, to tease the secrets loose from Potter's tightly sealed mind? What methods might allow his Legilimency to slip in and take what he wanted --

Oh. Voldemort smirked darkly.  _ There  _ was an idea.

He locked the doors to his wing of the Manor behind him, and went to have a long bath…

The Death Eater that answered the door at Malfoy Manor took one look at Harry and nearly tripped over himself in his haste to let him in. "The Dark Lord is waiting in his parlor," said the wizard in what was nearly a squeak, leading Harry up three flights of stairs and down a long corridor to a set of doors embellished with vines of gold and silver. Upon reaching the door, the escort gave a respectful nod and fled back from whence he'd come, leaving Harry alone before the doors.

He closed his eyes, steeling himself. Curse the ceasefire; Harry wished he had his wand, if only to twist it between his fingers in the nervous gesture he was used to. Voldemort had  _ his  _ wand, after all -- but no, the man had agreed to the Order's terms without complaint, and so Harry was customarily obligated to agree to Voldemort's terms in turn. No wand. No weapons in general. Twelve hours, and he was only permitted to defend himself with Occlumency (and whatever wandless magic he could manage, which was very little really).

With a sigh, he opened his eyes again, calling up the strongest Occlumency barriers he could muster, and kept his gaze fixed on the floor as he opened the ornate doors just enough to step through.

When the door clicked shut behind him, and Harry still heard no one in the room, he chanced a glance up; the parlor was well-decorated, just this side of "too ornate", much unlike the rest of Malfoy Manor from what he'd seen on the way in. Stately wood panelling melted into bookshelves against one wall; several closed doors on others; there were no windows, but there was a fireplace, if he needed to Floo out. Said fireplace was currently warming up the room quite nicely, even. Beside it, two armchairs faced each other across a low table -- and in one chair, lounging like a king, was... Voldemort.

"Good evening, Harry," the Dark Lord purred, and Harry's hand twitched reflexively for the wand he didn't have. He didn't dare meet the man's eyes; instead, he kept them on the silvery tie Voldemort was wearing with his fancy black suit, darting to the pale white hands clasped together over the knee of his crossed leg, and down to the shiny toe of the man's black shoe --

He swallowed. "Erm -- hello. I've come as promised."

Given that Voldemort had last seen Potter in person more than a year prior, fighting in the Ministry in increasingly-ragged school robes, the young wizard before him now seemed almost like a different person entirely (though Voldemort knew this was not the case). While he'd waited for the boy -- no, the young man, really -- to dare to lift his gaze from the floor, the Dark Lord had taken a good look at Potter, an... appreciative look, indeed, at the wizard who would be in his company until dawn. Neither tall, nor stocky in build -- Potter was lithe, lean, and his robes were fitted to him as proper duelling robes ought to be. He had perhaps cleaned himself up a bit before visiting upon Malfoy Manor, even; the hair that framed his face could almost be called neat.

And then, when their eyes met on the upsweep of Potter's gaze: Voldemort noticed with some amusement the way his subtle Legilimency was not only unnoticed, but ineffective. His preliminary glimpse of Potter's Occlumentic defenses was that of a smooth, frictionless sphere -- impeccable technique, one of Voldemort's least favorite to work against. But then, hardly insurmountable.

Not if it was opened from within.

He withdrew from Potter's outer mind as quickly as he'd entered -- in the span of less than a second, between blinks -- and smiled as warmly as his face could manage, gesturing for Potter to sit. To his credit, Potter maintained the relative grace he'd managed so far, in crossing the room to take his seat; he did not even bother to avert his gaze, watching the Dark Lord watching him. Perhaps Potter had developed, in his time with Dumbledore, a sense for when Legilimency was likely (given how often the old goat used the art, himself). Perhaps he was distracted by the way Voldemort had not yet behaved as insanely as he was known to.

On a whim, the Dark Lord rose from his chair and crossed the room to the liquor cabinet, passing closely beside Potter's chair as he went. He could feel the younger wizard's eyes on him while his back was turned; not bothering to ask if his guest would like anything, Voldemort retrieved the good whisky, bitters, and sweet vermouth, and mixed two drinks, topped with a tiny black cherry for garnish.

"By all means, make yourself comfortable, Harry," he called over his shoulder, bending to retrieve a better set of glasses from underneath one shelf. When he returned to the chairs, drinks in hand, a glance found Potter hastily turning to look into the fire, evidently wishing to pretend he'd been doing so from the start.

"Give this a try," Voldemort suggested, floating over one glass to Potter. "It's a Manhattan, with a bit of magical flair." The younger wizard eyed it speculatively, holding the drink up to his nose for a sniff. From the way he raised his eyebrows, it appealed.

"What's it called?" Potter asked, staring down at the dark swirl in the cocktail. He took a sip, blinking at the taste, then took another.

Voldemort sipped his, amused. "As it uses Maker's Mark whisky, I call it a Dark Mark."

For just a moment, while he was looking into the bottom of his glass, Potter smiled -- but then he seemed to remember where he was, and thought better of it. "It's good," he complimented neutrally, looking back up at Voldemort again. "Thank you."

In a half-second of eye contact, he took another look at Potter's Occlumency; it held fine under the strong alcohol, or at least it did for now. It was interesting, though, Voldemort thought as he retreated and sipped his drink again, the way the sphere shined with the glow of heavily-polished metal. Its mirror was not perfect -- it didn't need to be, of course -- but marred by the thin scratches of fibrous cloth used in buffing it up to a shine.

The Dark Lord leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, and let the silence grow, offset only slightly by the crackling of the fire. It had burnt down to a low, quiet flame, preferable, Voldemort thought, to a larger, roaring fire that might have proven distracting. He relaxed, and waited, and soon enough, Potter took another nervous sip and spoke, chancing a glance into Voldemort's eyes yet again.

(The more he refrained from taking the opportunities Potter gave him, the more opportunities he got.)

"I have to admit, I expected to be in the dungeons the minute I got here," the younger wizard said. "I know the agreement forbade torture, but it said nothing about imprisonment or discomfort."

Voldemort gave him a considering once-over, the fingers of his free hand drumming against the leather of the armchair. "It would have been counterproductive," he mused, "and much as he likes to pretend otherwise, Lucius' dungeons are what the Americans call a 'finished basement'. The beds in those cells are as comfortable as my own."

Was that a spot of color, high on Potter's cheeks? Why yes, it was.

"You don't seem all that interested in the Order secrets I'm supposed to be guarding," Potter murmured, perplexed. "I guess I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak." He shifted in his chair, unconsciously mirroring Voldemort's position. The hem of his trousers rode up to show off a Gryffindor-patterned sock on his rather shapely ankle.

"Ah, but you discount the pleasure of your company," the Dark Lord disagreed, still smiling. His eyes honed in sharply on the way Potter's hand trembled at the comment, glass faltering on its route to his lips. The color on his cheeks hadn't faded; when he spoke, his voice was marginally harder than a moment before.

"You don't have to try and charm me into staying, Riddle," the younger wizard bit out, hold tensing on his glass. "It's not like I can leave."

Voldemort raised a non-eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Charm you? I can't say I've tried that, yet."

Potter rolled his eyes, taking another sip. A drop lingered on his lower lip; the tip of his pink tongue darted out to clear it away. "Oh, stop. It's Hepzibah Smith all over again --" he blinked, cutting himself off, and looked down at the drink as if to blame it for the slip. Voldemort filed away the implications for later, offering Potter a slow smile instead.

"Is this your way of saying you  _ want  _ to be charmed, Harry?"

Potter blinked, then flushed pinker, green eyes wide. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, not speaking.

Voldemort leaned forward in his chair, setting his glass on the table. "It is an interesting comparison, given what Hepzibah desired of me."

A visible, audible swallow, Potter's Adam's apple bobbing in the column of his throat. "I... I didn't mean..." he said quietly, flustered.

"Didn't you? But I will not press the matter..." the Dark Lord uncrossed his legs, letting his knees splay out in the chair, and sat back against the leather, toying with the knot of his tie. "Even if you do have a much better chance than she did of getting what you  _ want." _ He let the emphasis on the last word speak for itself.

Harry couldn't disguise the shiver he gave as anything else than a response to Voldemort's comment. He studiously avoided eye contact, but that meant his eyes were drawn to the shine of silver fabric as the man loosened his tie, tugging it off his neck entirely and unbuttoning the first button of his black shirt.

His breath hitched at the glimpse of pale skin underneath; he fought to say anything at all, and only dug a deeper hole by asking, "What do you mean, I have a better chance?"

The smirk in Voldemort's voice was obvious even if Harry didn't see it. "Why, I thought you already knew. Hepzibah was a witch -- and I only bed men."

Voldemort savored the sharp intake of breath Potter made at the admission, the way his flush spread down his cheeks and neck. "...I didn't know," the young wizard breathed, obviously unable to tear his gaze from the Dark Lord's fingers as they deftly unbuttoned one more button before he returned that hand to the chair, rubbing circles in the leather with his thumb. "I've never..."

_ Never what? _ he wondered, watching the way Potter's free hand gripped the armchair. Voldemort found himself more and more interested in the end of that sentence, because it seemed rather like he meant to say  _ I've never been with a man before, _ and more than that, it seemed like he might wish to change that.

"Tell me, Harry," he asked quietly, "what it is that you want."

And in the moment Potter looked into his eyes again, startled, he threaded Legilimency into his mind again, and heard the younger wizard's reply just before he moved to speak it.

_ "Please --" _

"...Please take me," Harry whispered, closing his eyes against the admission a second later. Heat suffused his body, the flush on his cheeks deepening. He could hear his heart thudding loudly in his chest. This was... he wasn't supposed to... to act like this. To beg.

Distantly, he heard Voldemort standing from the chair and drawing nearer. Gently, the man coaxed Harry's fingers off of the neck of his glass, setting the drink aside. He didn't let go of Harry's hand after that, though; instead, he thumbed over his knuckles, lifting the hand up to his mouth.

"It would be my pleasure," came the reply, just before Voldemort pressed his lips to Harry's first knuckle in a little chaste kiss that nevertheless had Harry's mouth going dry. He opened his eyes in time to watch the kiss be repeated on each knuckle, and another on the top of his wrist. "In fact," the Dark Lord amended, turning Harry's hand over to kiss the inside of his wrist, "it would be... both of ours."


End file.
